Chapter 3 ~ Short Cut
Belecthor maneuvered his way through the thick growth. Perhaps taking his long unused short-cut had not been the best idea, but it would save time in the long run . . . he hoped. Beneath him Celebros snorted restlessly and stamped as Belecthor halted to let the great horse catch his wind.
They had been traveling for some time now and, while keeping to the path, they had continued more or less at a full gallop, thus cutting several hours of time off their journey. If all worked as planned, the short-cut should take several more hours off their over-all time.
Belecthor dismounted and unsheathed his sword which he had buckled on before leaving the house. He was determined to make as much progress as possible, and thus he began hacking his way through the thick underbrush. He had never been fond of cutting through foliage, but it was better than allowing the horse to trample his way through. Less noise anyway.
He pulled up suddenly as his foot splashed in a swift moving stream that he had not seen through the trees, nor heard over his own rustling. Good, he thought, almost there. Celebros snorted and pranced about; he had ever been water shy. Belecthor took a close hold on the reins and spoke soothingly to his mount, gently rubbing the velvet muzzle.
Once he was certain his mount was calmed sufficiently, Belecthor mounted and urged Celebros into the stream. The water did not even reach the tops of the silver horse’s hooves until he stepped out into the middle of the stream, then it washed up around his fetlocks. He snorted nervously and shied away from waves splashing over a stone and Belecthor dug his heels lightly into the stallion’s ribs urging him forward.
He was able to navigate their way safely to the other bank where they were obliged to scramble up a steep and muddy incline, which covered Celebros’ forelegs in filth. Once they had reached the top, the path lay before them. Belecthor smiled happily to himself and glanced at the sun. It was easing slowly into the West. He had saved half a day’s ride. The palace was only a league’s distance now. He patted his mount’s damp shoulder happily. They would be home soon.
~*~*~*~
As Celebros’ hooves clattered on the paved walk, the guards at the gates called for him to halt. "Who goes there?" one called into the darkness.
"It is I," Belecthor replied, pulling Celebros to a prancing halt before them and tossing back the hood of his cloak, "Captain Belecthor. I would see my grandfather."
"I believe he has retired for the night."
"Very well," Belecthor answered, "I shall see him in the morning. Good night."
"Good night, my Lord," they answered, allowing him to pass.
Once Celebros was stabled, Belecthor entered the palace. He had to see Faramir right away. He crept silently down the empty halls and halted before his grandfather’s door. Hesitating a moment, he rapped softly, grimacing as the echoes reverberated through the hall.
After a moment, Prince Faramir himself, a loose robe thrown about his shoulders, opened the door, a candle in his hand. "Belecthor!" he cried softly, ushering his grandson into the room. "Is anything amiss? I hope your family is not in danger."
Belecthor bowed slightly to his grandmother Éowyn, who likewise had a loose robe about her, before answering the Prince. "Grandfather Faramir, my Lord," he said, "my family is well, but they might be in danger, as might we all."
"Please sit down and tell us your tale," Éowyn said, motioning to a seat by the hearth. "And take off those boots! They have mud on them. Faramir, rekindle the fire so we may have some light."
Belecthor sat and removed his boots while Faramir piled small twigs about the still glowing coals in an attempt to ignite them. "Now," Faramir said as a small flame jumped up and began dancing around the kindling, like the tongue of a snake flicking over the leaves on the ground, "please explain yourself."
"Well, my Lord, Morwen and I were riding through the woods when we found a wounded soldier of Gondor. We brought him home to our parents to be treated and it would seem that he is a messenger from the King."
"And what news does he bring?" Faramir asked, placing a large log over the now roaring flame and brushing his hands together in an effort to rid them of the soot that now clung to them.
"If his delirious callings are to be believed and have been properly understood, Gondor is under attack. She is being invaded by the Southrons and King Elessar asks your assistance as a sign of continued fidelity."
"I see. And your father sent you here alone to tell me this?"
"Yes. You see, we could not move the soldier again for fear that it would do him more ill than good, and we could not leave him nor Mother and Morwen alone. Also, I know of a shorter route home and it has stood me in good stead this day."
"Very well, my boy," his grandfather said, "go get yourself some sleep and we will tend to this matter in the morning."
"Yes, my Lord."
After Belecthor had departed, his boots in his hand, Éowyn turned to her husband. "Faramir, you know as well as I that such a thing as this cannot be put off too long. It must be addressed as soon as possible."
"Of course, my dear."
"Then why do you postpone it until morning? Why do you not deal with it immediately?"
"Because, my dear, now is a time for all good young men to be sleeping; and also beautiful wives. But it is a time for all good Stewards to be awake and deciding what is to be done. Now, Éowyn, please return to bed. I shall come to a decision tonight, and then we shall address it in the morning. Good night."
"Good night, my Lord," she replied, kissing him lightly before returning to her blankets.
Faramir placed another log atop the fire and settled back into his chair, wiping his filthy hands on a nearby rag. It was going to be a long night.